Clutching at dreams
by KatRum
Summary: I know this place, a strong sense of familiarity humming in my chest as I struggle to remember it; it's like clutching at a dream. (A fic in which Ichigo loses his memories of being a shinigami, and Rukia is to blame)


So this is the result of a 3-day binge write. I'm trying out a new writing style and challenging myself not to use direct dialogue, so let me know what you think :)

Anyways, please read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

Rukia's hollow detector beeps, a sound I haven't heard since before the war began. She looks as surprised as I feel; I see her tense up, then relax her shoulders as she recognises the sound. Our eyes connect and we share the nostalgia of a time before, where everything was simple and she was showing me the ropes of being a Shinigami. It was only two years ago, but it seems like an age to me.

I nod to Rukia, indicating that we should get a move on to cleanse the hollow. I'm surprised at how easy it is to fall back into our old routine; running across rooftops, unseen by the blissfully unaware residents of Karakura. I ask Rukia what it would have been like if we hadn't met. Would I still notice her running across the town, swift as a raven? She jokes that I'd probably chase after her and she'd end up binding me like she did that first night we met; I laugh as I tell her she's probably right.

We find the hollow quickly, Rukia distracting it while I execute it from behind. Its essence lights the air between us for a moment before it disappears, the dust obscuring Rukia's face, but I swear I catch a glimpse of regret flicker across her features before her expression becomes unreadable. I give her a questioning look, asking her what's bothering her. She brushes my concern aside, like I expect her to, and I sigh in resignation. Stubborn midget.

She turns, motioning for us to leave, and I'm left wondering what's on her mind. I wish she would open up to me like she used to, but I guess the war conditioned her to push everything down – she told me back then that we didn't have time to let emotions get in our way. It tugs at my heart, but I think it's her way of grieving and honouring her brother's memory.

We land on the street a couple blocks from my place. Rukia's expression is unreadable as she turns to me, but I notice a slight shine in the corner of her eyes. I want to ask what's wrong, but before I can voice it she hugs me tight, hair brushing against my chin. I stiffen in her grasp for a moment, before I hesitantly hug her back, smoothing my hand over her head as I breathe in her scent. I don't know where this is coming from, but I can sense she's having some kind of internal struggle and I have the urge to comfort her, muttering into her hair and reassuring her it'll be alright.

I feel her take a deep breath before she releases me, pulling her hands from behind my back, tracing along my forearms to clasp our hands between us. We stand like that for a moment, the heat of my hands warming hers as I look into her eyes, questioningly; I see resolve in those violet orbs. Something cold clamps around my wrist and I flinch, pulling my hands away and staring at the metal band pinching at my wrist. I look back to Rukia, alarmed, but she seems a mile away, her image phasing in and out of focus – what's going on? I falter half way through asking her what the band is as a sudden searing pain splits through my head. My knees hit the pavement as I press my hands against my temples in an attempt to block out the pain. The band? I fumble with the thing on my wrist, trying to find a way to get it off but my fingers find no purchase.

I call out to Rukia. What did she do? Why? I feel her catch me as my body goes limp, her apology reaching my ears as my consciousness slips. I allow my eyes to fall closed, and the world goes dark.

* * *

Knuckles knock quickly on the door to the Kurosaki Clinic. Isshin Kurosaki yells out a boisterous 'I'm coming' before he paces over to it to answer it. He doesn't expect his son to be standing there with vacant eyes. 'Ichigo?' his gaze seems distant, as it draws across Isshin's face. He blinks a couple of times, slowly, a spark of recognition in those amber orbs before muttering a hushed 'Dad?'

Isshin stiffens. No 'old man?' or a scathing remark? There's definitely something wrong. Heck, Isshin doesn't remember the last time Ichigo called him 'Dad'. He pulls the door open fully and steps back to allow Ichigo to pass, expecting him to step inside. He looks around slowly, dazed, as he remains rooted on the spot, almost zombie-like. Isshin's concern grows tenfold, his brow furrowing as he takes Ichigo's arm and ushers him inside, pulling him to the living room to take a seat on the sofa.

He leaves him there for a moment while he fetches his first aid kit, swiftly returning with the red bag in hand. He notes Ichigo is looking at his hands, palms facing upwards and forearms resting on his knees. He calls his name again, prompting him to look up. He does so, staring blankly at Isshin. Without wasting time, Isshin unfolds the kit and starts examining his son, checking him over for signs of concussion or injury. He finds nothing wrong with him, noting him to be in perfect health. He sits back, puzzled. What was wrong with his son?

Wasn't he with Rukia this morning? Isshin asks where she is, but Ichigo only blinks at him with a vaguely confused expression, rubbing his wrist absently. Isshin homes in on the movement, taking Ichigo's arm and looking at the odd band clasped around it with a sinking feeling. The band is a thin and smooth and made of some kind of metal, wrapping tightly around the circumference of his wrist. He runs a thumb along the metal, trying to locate a release mechanism but finding none. His sense of unease grows stronger; was this the work of Shinigami? Worried, he calls Urahara to come over. The shopkeeper doesn't ask for details, sensing the urgency in his voice.

Within the ten minutes it takes Urahara to arrive, Ichigo falls asleep on Isshin's shoulder, breathing lightly. The shopkeeper lets himself in, startling Isshin as he sneaks up behind him (not that he'd let him know that). Isshin stands, easing Ichigo to a comfortable position on the sofa, before facing the shopkeeper and explaining what happened. He motions to the band on Ichigo's wrist, concern in his voice. He asks if it's something he recognises, not caring if he sounds semi-accusatory.

Urahara inspects the contraption with a grim expression before prodding it with a kido-laced finger. Isshin doesn't expect to see purple vein-like tendrils extend from the band, nor does he expect the sudden shout of pain from Ichigo, shooting upright from the shock and nearly swiping the shopkeeper to the ground as he flinches back from his touch. The bucket-hatted man deftly dodges the strike, shading his face with a faded fan.

Ichigo looks around wildly, and Isshin senses his reiatsu fluctuating, pulsing, twisting, flickers of purple lacing fiery blue. He steps back from the intensity, breathing heavily. Urahara seems unfazed, although Isshin can see a bead of sweat on his temple.

The shopkeeper asks Ichigo to calm down with a soothing voice, a pleasant smile fixed in place. Isshin goes along with it, telling his son that it's ok, everything's fine and he's safe. It seems to work as his reiatsu stabilises to a low simmer. The vacant gaze is gone from Ichigo's eyes, replaced with confusion as he asks Isshin what the heck was going on, and who was this strange man in the living room. The two men both stiffen at that, sharing an alarmed glance.

Urahara is quick to reply, explaining that he came to visit Isshin as an old friend, and thought they'd scare him awake as a prank. Isshin almost protests, but it does sound like something he'd do to Ichigo out of jest so he goes along with it, telling Ichigo loudly that he shouldn't let his guard down. Ichigo scowls at him in annoyance (there it is!), muttering a 'whatever' as he side-eyes Urahara with an assessing gaze.

Isshin feels uneasy. Does Ichigo not remember the shopkeeper? Before he can voice his concern, Urahara asks Ichigo about that dark-haired girl he usually hung out with – apparently Isshin had been bragging that Ichigo had finally gotten a girlfriend – Rukia, was that her name?

Ichigo turns crimson, cheeks hot with embarrassment as he turns on his father, yelling at him to not spread rumours like that. Ichigo faces Urahara, telling him he doesn't know anyone by that name and his old man is just full of nonsense.

Annoyed, he excuses himself from the room with a polite nod at the shopkeeper, telling them he's tired and going to rest for a while. They let him leave, hearing his footsteps fade as he ascends to his room.

* * *

I climb the stairs to my room, feet heavy and feeling fatigued from the effort. What's wrong with me? A little rest might do me good, I think as I flop face-first onto the bed. There's an odd sensation in my head, like it's full of cotton balls; the world seems muffled and I have the sense that I'm forgetting something. Homework maybe? I figure it can wait a couple of hours.

The man downstairs seemed a little strange – he didn't mention his name, but that green-and-white striped bucket hat spiked a sense of familiarity; I had the urge to knock the stupid thing off his head. Perhaps I had met the man when I was a kid when goat-face had more friends; they seemed to know each other fairly well. I wonder if mom knew him too.

I roll onto my side, getting comfortable, wincing as I crush my wrist. The movement sends a searing pain up my arm like lightning and I rub at it to ease the discomfort. My hand brushes over a metal band, cool to the touch, and I bring it closer to my face to observe the obscure contraption digging into my skin. I sigh. Probably goat-face's doing. I don't see a way to remove it, but I can't be bothered to yell at goat-face to come up here and get it off; it can wait 'till later.

Another wave of fatigue overcomes me, so I obligingly close my eyes and allow myself to sleep.

Urahara and Isshin deduce that Ichigo has no memory of the Shinigami, and they argue over whether they should tell Ichigo. Isshin sees it as another chance for Ichigo to have a normal life (another part of him wants Ichigo to forget about the hardships and trauma he's faced, the people he's lost), but Urahara is adamant that it can only mean worse things are coming. That band on Ichigo's arm is unlike anything the shopkeeper's seen before, and he's worried about what it will do to Ichigo.

It appears to be some kind of memory-blocking device that bears a resemblance to a reiatsu seal he once prototyped back when he was the captain of squad twelve. Urahara explains that the prototype he developed was intended to bind with the wearer's reiatsu to keep them under control, but he thought it was destroyed with the rest of his lab. The shopkeeper senses that it has a deeper purpose; the reiatsu he felt buried deep in the band before worryingly familiar.

Isshin doesn't like the sound of what Urahara is proposing, and he's angry at the man for enabling the Soul Society to harm his boy. He's also probably the only one who can fix it though, so he's careful not to irate the blonde man. They decide to meet with the other Shinigami in town to see if they can provide some insight, though wary that they may have had some part in it. Urahara messages them and they decide to meet at the Shoten.

I stand surrounded by darkness, the ground cool against the bottoms of my feet.

I don't know this place. Am I dreaming?

Voices call to me, indiscernible, echoing in the dark void I'm encompassed in. I can't pinpoint their source, which sets me on edge as I blindly swing around to find it.

There.

In the distance.

I see a light, flickering faintly.

I move towards it, bare feet casting ripples across the inky surface below them and the sounds grow stronger, urging me on.

I reach it, finally, and I hesitantly touch the strange object, its shape obscured by the light. As soon as my fingers brush its surface, the scene around me changes. The darkness is gone, replaced by blindingly bright blue skies – I blink to readjust my eyes – and tall skyscrapers, their glass reflecting the white of the (sideways?) clouds drifting lazily through the sky. The sight is strange, but I _know_ this place, a strong sense of familiarity humming in my chest as I struggle to remember it; it's like clutching at a dream.

I spot a figure a couple buildings over, and I make my way over to it, hesitating for a moment before jumping the gap between the skyscrapers. It feels almost habitual, like I've done it before.

The hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end, warning me of an incoming danger so I duck, listening to my instinct. A white blur passes swiftly over where my head just was, brushing the ends of my hair. What the …? Confused, I try to identify the blur. I stand, but the wind is immediately knocked out of me as something pushes against my chest, throwing me backwards. Alarmed, I roll out of the way of another hit, the glass of the building cracking where it landed, and scramble to my feet.

I catch a glimpse of a white figure rushing toward me at a frightening speed with … is that a sword?! I panic as I realise I don't stand a change at running away from the figure – it's too fast – so I stand my ground and attempt to follow its movements. The action feels familiar, but I don't have time to wonder why as I allow my instincts to guide me, barely dodging blows.

The figure slows down enough for me to see its face; I freeze in shock as I recognise it as a distorted image of my own, like looking in a colourless warped mirror. The moment of hesitation is enough for the (other me?) to throw me to the ground, pinning me there by the tip of his sword at my neck. He scrapes the point against my collarbone teasingly, drawing a thin line of blood that makes me wince. My heart beats rapidly, and I'm not sure if my gut is telling me to fight or flee. I get a sudden sense of de ja vu, an image of the same white face flickering through my mind for an instant before it's gone again.

Swallowing hard, I ask who he is. He responds with what looks like a disgusted growl, pulling the sword – a giant cleaver really – from my throat and mounting it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. An image comes to mind of him spinning it around with the cloth lying limp from the handle. He says he is who he is, his voice resonating with a strange double tone to it. I scowl at him in frustration as I get to my feet, asking him what he means by that, which he ignores. It makes me want to hit him.

He calls out to someone, the sound of it bringing another twinge of familiarity that I can't ignore. Images of a dark-cloaked man flood my mind, a veil of darkness licking the ground at his feet.

I blink the image from my mind, pushing a hand to my temple as my head throbs in pain. What are these images? I feel deep in my soul that I should know these men and this strange world that they reside in.

A deep voice resonates the air around me.

 _Call my name_.

The name 'Zangetsu' leaves my lips in a whisper, almost out of reflex. I _know_ I know that name, and it frustrates me to no end that I can't place it to a memory; it's that same dream-clutching feeling as before.

Am I going crazy?

A man materialises in front of me, the same face as the vision I had. A visor stretches across his aged face, unruly brown hair flickering in time with the cloak that engulfs his tall frame. The white man steps up beside him, and they both look at me scrutinisingly.

I blink at them dumbly, not understanding what they want.

Confused, I tell them that my soul knows them from somewhere, but my mind can't tell from where. Who are they?

They share a glance between each other, mouths turned down in similar frowns. They tell me that they are a part of me. I don't understand their vague answer, but I accept it.

A rumble sounds from nearby, shaking the building we're standing on. I look for the source, spotting a dark split in the sky with inky purple tendrils protruding from the opening. It seems to be emitting some kind of energy, I can feel the sickening feeling in my gut as it releases waves of it. My legs weaken, knees buckling beneath me. The two men are still standing, but they seem to be shaken.

Turning towards me, they tell me to wake up. I give them a confused look as I don't know what they mean – is this still a dream?

The other me growls in frustration, pouncing towards me. I scuttle back, trying to fend him off but he swiftly pins me down. He raises the hilt of his sword, and I feel it connect with my skull before darkness engulfs me once more.

* * *

I wake in my room with a yell of pain, sheets thrown from my bed. My breath comes heavy, and I feel a thin sheen of sweat against my skin as I bolt upright, clutching at my wrist as it throbs in agony. Through the haze, I determine that this stupid band must be the source. I claw at it, trying to wedge it off but it seems to only dig into my skin even further, which warrants a string of obscenities to flow from my mouth.

I shout at Dad to get up here, my panic growing as the contraption wedged into my lower forearm starts to glow a deep purple, vein-like tendrils spreading up to my elbow. He's a doctor. He can fix this.

Goat-face and the bucket-hatted man are at my side in an instant, their expressions almost as panicked as my own. My unease grows tenfold. They share another knowing look again, and Dad nods to the blonde. Bucket-hat, as I now dub him, folds his hands and hovers them above the contraption and I stare, dumbfounded, as they start to _glow_. Actually glow. A bright, glimmering green glow of glowiness.

I _am_ going crazy.

I blink vigorously, but the light doesn't fade. So, not a hallucination. It's real? Goat-face tells me to calm down, take deep breaths, and I listen to him (for once), trying to slow my pounding heart. It helps. Or the green glow helps. I'm not entirely certain what does it, but the waves of pain from the band stop and the tendrils recede slightly, no longer lighting up my wrist like a glow stick.

Bucket-hat sits back with a sigh, and I see Goat-face look a little relieved. I, however, am very confused and full of questions. I ask them what happened, what the weird lights were, what the band is, and, most importantly, if they can take it off.

Goat-face tries to brush it off, saying that it was all a joke but I'm not buying it. He's hiding something from me, and I'm irritated that he's treating me like a child. I hit him, calling his bullshit. I turn to the other man, resolve in my eyes, and demand (semi-politely, because he's a stranger) that he tell me everything.

His eyebrows raise slightly, and I can't tell if he's shocked or taken aback by my abruptness but I can't bring myself to care. I want answers. He shakes out a fan to cover his expression (a flash of a similar movement passes through my mind – an aged fan concealing a shadowed face) but I can see the sharp gaze of his eyes, calculating. I frown slightly, furrowing my brow in an almost-scowl as I try to place the image.

I ask if we've met before. He lets out a resigned sigh, snapping his fan shut, and confirms that we have known each other for a while. He explains that the band on my wrist is some kind of memory blocker. I glance down at the contraption, confused. Is this the cause of those strange de ja vu moments I've been experiencing? like I feel I've been missing something?

I ask him to tell me everything; what I've forgotten. The man begins by telling me his name (Kisuke Urahara) before enlightening me to the world of the Shinigami.

* * *

At some point we end up at Urahara's shop. I don't recognise the dusty baskets of old candies in the dimly lit store, nor the traditional low-lying table that we are currently seated at. Since the blonde man explained that my memories had been removed, I've been straining my mind to recall even a glimpse of the events he described. So far, I've only gleamed frustrating feelings of fleeting familiarity.

The shopkeeper told me about a war with a man named Aizen (the name brings a sour taste to my mouth), and about a girl I saved; her name is Rukia. I repeat the name of this girl, expecting it to elicit some kind of memory (spoiler alert: it doesn't). He tells me that we were close and I went to the ends of the Earth to rescue her from her execution in the Soul Society.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around this Soul Society and Shinigami business; I didn't believe the bucket-hatted man until he pulled himself out of his body which, understandably, took me a few minutes to process.

I don't know if I want to remember the things he's told me; it seems like this Aizen person did a lot of damage and I'm not sure whether remembering will change me. Wars are supposed to be traumatic, aren't they?

I'm not the Ichigo that he describes, but I can half-sense he's expecting me to be. I don't know how to fight wars or be a hero, I don't share the same bonds. I'm just plain old me. I can't help but feel conflicted though; from what the man says, he was the one who enabled me to save someone close to me, he was my mentor, and for that I owe him. After all he's done for me I can't just cast aside the bond we shared.

I feel resolve burn in my veins as I clench my fists, my jaw tightening.

I ask him a favour.

I ask him to train me.

* * *

Dust clouds the air, burning my lungs as I dodge a blow that leaves a deep wound in the ground, two feet from where I stand. The shopkeeper doesn't allow me a moment's respite, attacking from the left as I narrowly dodge again. He's _fast_.

The dirt settles, and I catch a glimpse of the blonde-haired man moving quickly towards me. I don't blink, not wanting to lose sight of him as I try to anticipate his next attack. I swing around, expecting him to come from my left, but my feet fumble on a lose rock and I almost land flat on my face. I catch myself just in time, throwing myself to the side as an intense red beam of burning energy singes the ends of my hair as it whistles by me.

I yell at the man, asking him if he's trying to kill me.

He sings back that that's the idea.

I think he's joking until I see the look in his eyes as he shoots another beam at me, twice as fast as the last. It dawns on me that the man is one hundred percent insane. Fear clenches in my gut as I realise he's being dead serious. I glance down at the wooden practice sword in my hand with dread. How am I supposed to win with only this?

A deep, rumbling voice resonates in my mind. It tells me to cast off my fear; to look forward, go forward, never stand still. I recognise it as the cloaked man from my dream.

 _Retreat and you will age, hesitate and you will die_.

 _Call my name._

The vision fills my mind and I allow myself to fall into it.

 _I call Zangetsu, feeling his power and strength flow through me and through the sword – a giant cleaver – in my hands. My foe stands before me, the same bucket-hatted man, gathering energy for another strike. I will not die here. I will win._

 _I let loose a battle cry, calling out the Getsuga Tenshou and releasing it towards the man with a powerful swing of Zangetsu. The blinding light of the curved beam fills the cavern, carving a deep crevice in the earth as it blasts towards the man. I breathe heavily, the dust settling, and I see a green-and-white striped hat flutter to the ground, not quite cut in two._

 _I yell in victory as the blonde man looks wide-eyed at the limp object, noting that I may have slightly destroyed his precious hat. I find that I'm not the least bit sorry._

I jerk myself out of the vision, disorientated to find myself back in the same rocky plane fighting the same man. I blink quickly, trying to shake off the remnants of the memory as another red beam flies past me.

I know what I have to do.

Steeling myself, I face my opponent, holding the wooden sword in front of me. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath as I ask Zangetsu to lend me his power. I allow my instincts to guide me, pulling deep into my soul as I gather energy into my hands and through the sword as though it were the giant cleaver I remembered. I pour as much as I can into it, building it up until I can't contain it. Energy whips around me in electric waves as I voice the Getsuga Tenshou.

A bright blue arc shoots from Zangetsu, plummeting towards my foe. I watch, exhilarated, as it lights up the cavern exactly how it did in the vision, carving a path until it dissipates into a distant rock (it explodes in a glorious shower of dust).

Urahara stands off to the side, commenting that my aim is a little off. I note that the infuriating bucket hat is still situated firmly on his head. I tell him offhandedly that I remember destroying that hat last time. He seems surprised, but smirks as he tells me he let me.

I laugh, amused, as I say I don't believe him.

* * *

A/N Let me know what you think :) Reviews are appreciated xx


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